


Twisted Dance

by RiddleRedCoats



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: And the guy ends up dead, Celene and Morrigan are pinning technically, Depictions of a gory corpse, F/F, I don't care bioware, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Morrigan is in love with Tabris even if she is with Zevran, Morrigan is wlw, Orlais is fucked up and doesn't care about murder, Other, There are actually no pairings, implied Briala/Celene, implied Female Tabris/Morrigan, implied Female Tabris/Zevran, in which Orlais is fucked up in general, so... get reckt, very mild!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-11 22:54:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29250279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiddleRedCoats/pseuds/RiddleRedCoats
Summary: A death at the Winter Palace is not, exactly, a rare occurrence. The culprit, in the end, is far too easy to catch and the motive behind it, easier still for Celene to understand. At best, this little accident has only helped Morrigan and Celene understand each other a little better.
Relationships: Morrigan/Celene Valmont
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Twisted Dance

**Author's Note:**

> this is from a prompt from the subreddit on Dragon Age Prompt 6 - Mystery “Why is there a dead person in my study?”... “Actually, let me rephrase: Who killed the noble in my study?”  
> Takes place during Inquisition but before WEWH, probably.

“Why is there a dead person in my study?”

There was quietness in the room instead of an answer. Celene kept her eyes firmly fixed on the mangled body draping over her desk, though there was an impetuous impulse to roll them with distinct fondness. When silence reigned still, she ventured again.

“Allow me rephrase: who killed the dead noble in **_my_** study?” 

It was, of course, a rhetorical question of sorts. There were three people with access to her study; herself, Fleur and Morrigan. Celene, ruthless _arrangements_ aside, had not personally practised this specific skill set of hers in some time. Fleur would have informed her immediately. That left Morrigan, no matter how unlikely it was.

The dark-haired witch, dressed in a flattering red velvet and dark taffeta dress, remained quiet at Celene’s question.

Of course, besides the keys on their persons, there was another way to enter the locked study. But collecting Halla statues to slot into precise and weighted shelves was not exactly an intuitive process. Celene knew of only one person who knew the combinations of the rooms as well as she did, and her former spymaster would not divulge the palace’s secrets so carelessly. 

Especially not with the intent to attack such a low-hanging noble. 

Yannis Allard was rather inconsequential in all things; not overly rich, not overly intelligent, and certainly not overly powerful. He was, however, a bit of a braggart due to his, supposedly, handsome looks. Celene herself was rather… immune to them, but she guessed that if one were to look at him objectively, there was _something_ there.

Though, perhaps, not today. 

The mangled body was rather grotesque, she observed coolly. The man’s golden locks were caked in blood, dripping unto the floor due to his head hanging over the back of her desk. The pretty grey eyes were unmistakably wide with fear, his last moments likely spent in agony. His full lips were open in disbelief, although it was perhaps the sliced, hanging jaw that made it look so. What killed him, however, were the gaping slashes across his main arteries; one deep in his groin followed by another to the armpit and a final blow to his carotid in the neck. 

The slashes had been executed carelessly and quickly, with no regard to the blood spray that would ensue. Her bookshelves were sprinkled red, not to mention the river of blood that drenched her now ruined desk. Even the _ceiling_ was dotted with bloodstains. The very air smelled metallic. It would take weeks to get the blood off the marble.

It appeared not to be the work of a professional but of someone knowledgeable enough to know where to hit. How curious.

“Morrigan?” she prodded Morrigan, the only other person in the room, again. 

“I am bereft of answers, your majesty,” the witch sounded sincere, yellow eyes calmly drifting over the scene, “but you can see that the body, twisted as it may be, does not appear to have been done in by magic.”

“Perhaps not.” 

She conceded to nothing and Morrigan noticed it well, eyes narrowing with a mild accusation that would have caused nearly anyone else to be on the receiving end of a stinging rebuke from the empress.

“You know of my skills with any type of blade, Celene, ‘tis not nearly enough to do _this_.” The witch’s skill was rather abysmal, Celene privately agreed, but one need not have _skill_ to do something like this. “Aside that, I would have rid myself of the body.”

_That_ was a much better defense. 

“Hmm,” Celene nodded and walked further into the room, taking care for her dress not to come in contact with the blood on the floor. 

“You think someone has found the Halla statues?”

“If it was not you-

“‘Twas not.”

“Then we have to consider such a possibility.” Celene took a step closer to the body and observed the twisted way the body was displayed and, at the second deeper glance, it evoked something in her. “Strangely enough, this reminds me of a performance a couple of years back; _‘Twisted Dance’._ ”

“A performance?”

“Yes,” Celene affirmed, observing the perfect line slashed across the noble’s throat. “About five, perhaps six, years ago, there was a performance at the Imperial Palace. The artist, encased in a transparent cube-like structure, daringly twisted his body in a dance so impossible that I thought, several times over, that he had to be dead. As he twisted further, he applied a rather intriguing technique by orchestrating to ostentatiously break his own body, mangling it and spraying blood across the stage constructed for him. He was fine, ultimately, and had somehow used magic to show his piece. It was meant as an allegory for the pressures of society, of one twisting himself to fit the mold built for each of us.” 

She sneaked a look at Morrigan, who did not look the slightest bit intrigued but made sure to listen to her. She rather liked that about the witch. Her eyes returned to body for a second, before continuing.

“Of course, the nobility was not truly able to look past the spectacle and focused on the bloody mess he left behind. There was shock, some faints, even something of a riot for a short couple of hours. It, naturally, became all the rage for a few months.”

Briala had loved the piece, having watched from a balcony with some servants the salon she threw that night, they had talked of the artist's brilliance for hours afterwards. Morrigan was bound to be less fond.

There, a lovely sneer on the witch’s face. “Orlesians.” 

Celene laughed quietly, stepping away from the body. Unsurprisingly, Morrigan despised much of Orlesian life with the high melodrama, vain nobles and the impossibly complicated and twisting Game they all played. Yet, the witch was something of a natural at their Game with her mysterious affect, stinging rebukes ready to go, and an innate sense of self that drove Orlesians mad trying to figure out the twisting paths of what they were sure was a mask Morrigan put on. She only needed a bit of directing to excel at court.

Celene was rather… ‘enamoured’ was too strong a word when the part of her heart she dedicated to such sentimentally was perpetually occupied by her former lover. (Her heart, as always, squeezed in chest momentarily at the thought of her, but Celene pushed her firmly out of her head.) ‘Enchanted’, perhaps, was an apt word for her fascination with Morrigan.

“Actually, it was a Nevarran artist. Quite talented.”

“Hmm,” Morrigan eyed the scene a final time. “What are you going to do?”

“About Yannis? Nothing.” Celene stepped away from the room, closing it behind her, Morrigan following behind leisurely. “Until we find out more, there is not much I _can_ do. I will have Couteau clean the study and disseminate some information about him that will favour one of my allies. He has some connections to Gaspard, but not overly so. Still, I can destroy his house and elevate one of mine.”

They stepped into the main corridors of the palace; one side filling with mirrors and the other filling with windows showing the expansive gardens of the winter palace and the rolling hills beyond it.

Morrigan broke the companionable silence.

“I shall not be going to your _fête_ tonight, Celene,” the witch warned, her face twisting slightly as they enjoyed the casual walk through the palace’s sunset lit corridors, “I will be with Kieran. I have not seen him since I arrived.”

Morrigan’s son was, truthfully, a delight during this bleak time. Celene had found out about the boy during one of Morrigan’s absences when Kieran had attempted to transform into a crow without his mother present and it had led him to seek the empress out as the one who could find his mother and help him. The boy had spent three days hiding in her chambers for fear someone would find him in the painful and incriminating state of midtransformation he was on, and they had… bonded. Ever since, whenever Morrigan was away, she made sure to spend some time with the boy, whose company she had come to enjoy. 

“Of course,” she conceded easily. She turned slightly to smirk a little at her sorceress, “Give the boy my love, and tell him I will eagerly await your departure so we can enjoy each other’s company again without your motherly interference.”

The witch scoffed, and Celene privately preened at the obvious restraint she was making to not glare at her. “You will spoil him.”

“He should be spoiled,” she argued, “a _little,_ at least _._ He is a child in a dangerous environment. He should be able to have a little enjoyment, no?”

Morrigan’s eyes, usually as blank as an empty page, were shining brightly at that. She could never truly hide her love for her son. It was… endearing. “Yes. I suppose so.” It took only a few more steps before asked, coyly, “Have you admitted defeat when it comes to Kieran’s father?”

Ever since she had found out, Celene had been trying to guess who Kieran’s father was, making a game out of it. She had invented wild tales, using her training as a bard to even put them into poem-like structures if only to annoy Morrigan. By her calculations, the boy was born one year-ish after the Fifth Blight, and after spending time with the boy his parentage became clear, but she had allowed Morrigan the secret.

Still, she did not enjoy being poked unless she specifically asked for it.

“It is King Alistair of Ferelden, correct?”

Morrigan did not stop or stare wide-eyed at Celene. She was far too prideful for that. But she did curse, and her teeth ground together with barely restrained anger. She was rather beautiful like that, in all her wild glory. 

“How did you know?”

“I have met the man, you realise? Kieran has his laughter, although luckily not the propensity to laugh at his own jokes.”

Morrigan sighed as they rounded the corner. They were almost at the entrance of the ballroom, and their conversation turned more vague, pronouns replaced names, and Empress Celene slowly made her appearance.

“He is who he is.”

“Ah, but Morrigan, _him_? Truly? I confess myself… disappointed.” 

They both greeted Lord Gratien with a nod, and Celene accepted a smile from Solange and a disguised wink from Cyril with a slight turn of her head. Fleur and Colombe approached her sides while Coteau was already travelling towards the mess in her study.

“It is a long story,” Morrigan continued.

“You can tell your tale for Us tonight,” she said, making sure to flash Morrigan a grin. 

She delighted in the way some nobles openly gaped at her, whispers started almost immediately. She enjoyed playing with dangerous things, and right now, there was no one in her court more dangerous than Morrigan. She delighted in scandalising the nobles and turning them around by the end of the night. It was how she did some of her best work.

The witch rolled her eyes. “Fine. After, I shall go to your chambers. I have some things to share from my travels.”

Celene pushed her shoulders to relax even as her spine straightened to steel. The picture perfection of calm. “Perfect, Morrigan. We look forward to it.”

And just like that, Empress Celene entered the ballroom with a casual grace, her smile firmly in place as she greeted the same familiar faces.

######

Morrigan would never admit it, but she enjoyed these brief respites with Celene. The woman was intelligent, argumentative but willing to listen, eager to learn that which she did not understand. If more people displayed such willingness, maybe the world would be a different place.

Coincidently, Kieran happened to like her as well, as he’d told her again tonight just before she put him to sleep. Celene was kind and lent him all the books he could ever want, she taught him how to speak Orlesian and how to disguise oneself in plain sight. Privately, Morrigan suspected that it was because Celene was far more indulgent with him than Morrigan was, but she was glad that the empress kept a close eye on him.

She rounded the corner of where Celene was spending her nights at the Winter Palace (which was far away from the royal wing, at the moment, due to countless assassination attempts) and approached the door.

Celene was expecting her and there was no one at the door impeding her way, and she entered the room with a quiet with knock. 

She did not expect the sight that awaited her.

First, she spotted a tray with a bottle of wine, as was customary for their talks, a vintage that likely would cost more money than Morrigan had ever seen in her life before coming to Orlais. Then, she noticed the other two women in the room; Celene standing in a more casual dress and a very young, lithe elven maiden, her wrist firmly in Celene’s hand.

The girl had sun-kissed skin, an obvious tan compared to both herself and Celene. Her eyes were big and dark, almost like a chestnut, freckles dotted all across her face. And her curls were the colour of cinnamon, filtering to a light red due to the candles. She bore a striking resemblance to the empress’ former spymaster (former lover, as far too many people knew) and if not for the obvious younger age, Morrigan would have thought the girl _was_ Briala. 

“Come, Morrigan, sit” the empress called, and the girl trembled in her grip.

Morrigan entered the room and quietly sat on the comfortable sofa, looking over at the empress and the petite elf.

The empress' hand was still tight around the girl’s wrist. “What is your name?”

“Selene,” the girl answered, voice wobbling, “with an ‘S’.”

“Selene with an ‘S’,” the empress doled out the name and there was gentleness there despite all, “how old are you?”

“Fourteen.”

Morrigan watched as a flicker of _something_ (regret, guilt, anger, maybe a combination of all?) passed through Celene’s eyes and the empress quickly let go of the elven girl’s wrist. 

“I see,” she sounded tired, “Tell me, why did you kill Yannis?” 

The girl’s eyes were wide. “H-How did you know?”

“Your hands are rough from dagger work, there is a splinter of blood in your necklace, you noticed the halla statuette in my table with an air of fearful recognition, and when I asked if you ever saw one you panicked far too quickly. Not to mention, I have not seen you before today, _Selene_.”

Celene was far too observant for the girl to fool.

“I-I was cleaning around the study, your majesty, when Lord Allard approached me. At first, we were just talking and he was nice, but he started-” Morrigan clenched her teeth as the girl almost started to sob, “he started to-” the girl would not continue.

Celene softened and offered the girl a glass of whatever wine was in the tray the girl had brought over. “Here, drink,” the girl took the glass, but did not drink. “I get it. Please jump forward, if you wish.”

The girl nodded, eyes a little vacant and turned downward. “Yes. I knew about the halla, a s-s-servant girl told me, so I said to him I knew a place where he could--... I got the door open and we went in and-... And you know the rest.”

It was a bad cover story. That last part, at least. Morrigan had no doubt of girl’s word about the lord’s intentions. But there were specifically no halla statues around Celene’s study. It would have taken too long to fetch some… Unless the girl already had them in her possession.

Still, the story reminded her so very much of Tabris. Kallian Tabris had been a catastrophe in the making; violent and righteously angry at the world with only Zevran able to match or stay her hand, but she eventually managed to unite a broken country. Morrigan had… loved her, intensely, a realization that came much later in life.

Kallian had approached her in the beginning and much to her detriment, Morrigan had refused her as… gently... as she had been able, which was not much at the time. But they managed to stay friends. Now, with the benefit of insight and a few years out in the world outside of her Wilds, she knew that she had been in love. More, perhaps, than she would ever be again.

Celene, to the world’s eternal irony, was not unlike Kallian. There was less anger, certainly, but she was as opinionated as the Warden, as willing to argue with Morrigan, as fierce (even if infinitely more subtle) to prop up Morrigan to allow her plans to come to fruition. Both were willing to dirty their hands to see the future they envisioned come to pass, both were stubborn to the point of madness, and both were nearly uncompromising in their goals. Yet, there was a gentleness too, with both being equally selective with the recipients. There were differences with Kallian being far more active in her pursuits, while Celene was more scholarly; Celene was deliberate in her dealings while Kallian would instinctually forge ahead; Celene, pale and arrogant and Kallian, dark and audacious. 

They would hate each other immensely, and if they ever met Morrigan would have to amusedly watch as they exchanged abrasive insults and subtle barbs at each other.

Still, for as much as they resembled each other in Morrigan’s mind, she was not as… infatuated with the empress, per se, but ‘intrigued’ would be a good place to start. It was bound to go nowhere, even if it developed further (unlikely as it was), Celene was far too stuck in her own past.

“You may go, Selene,” the empress said, and Morrigan barely stopped a frown from showing. “Be sure to be at your post tomorrow.”

“Yes, your radiance.” 

The girl bowed in deference, though her eyes were almost glaring holes into the empress, and left the room, leaving only Celene and Morrigan in the enormity of Celene’s chambers. A few tense moments passed, Celene still staring after the little elf that vacated the room.

“It was a ruse, Morrigan.” 

Obviously. “How so?”

Celene took the tray the girl had brought and turned towards the large windowed doors that led to the balcony where Celene liked to spend the summer nights enjoying the warm breeze and the smell of the nearby hills seeping into their long conversations.

She threw the tray over the balcony, and Morrigan heard the quiet rage behind Celene’s gesture as the service hit the floor below.

“She is one of Briala’s agents,” she said, quietly, “the nobleman was a warning.”

“The girl implied-”

“I know,” Celene said, and Morrigan spotted a down-turned smile before she slipped into one of the chairs in the balcony, “I am sure that Yannis did try, the brute that he was, but Briala would not have sent the girl without training and the body was _displayed_ far too amateurish and was far too grotesque for one Briala’s agents.”

Morrigan followed behind her and sat in one of the white stone chairs across from the empress, the surprisingly comfortable chair comprised some of the little furniture of the balcony; with vases and plants spanning the majority of the large balcony and which blended beautifully into the landscape beyond the palace.

“In a panic, one could do such a thing.”

“The line across his neck was _perfect_ , Morrigan, an exemplary attack by all standards.” The empress shook her head, eyes drifting towards the horizon as if searching for something, or _someone_. “We are all trained to handle such things and that girl, whatever her name actually _is_ , has been trained well. ” 

Morrigan would not argue with that statement. She knew well how Celene kept calm under assassination attempts and forcefull attempts at getting her hand.

“The way she looked at you… Is it wise to keep her around?”

“She is from Halamshiral. You may not recognize the subtleties of the accent, but I do. I have likely killed some of her family.” More the reason to kick her out of the palace, in Morrigan’s opinion, yet Celene merely chuckled darkly. “However, keeping her around is no more life threatening than being at court; poison can come from working hands as well as jeweled ones.” The empress sighed. “Keeping her around will, additionally, allow me to have direct contact with Briala, if I ever need to.”

_That_ was a far more likely explanation.

“‘Twas a warning, then.”

“Is it not obvious?”

“ _‘We are coming for you’_ ,” Morrigan ventured a guess.

“No, that has been very much implied for months now with the obviously poisoned food, the cold baths, and the almost blatant disrespect. This is a far more ominous sign, my dear sorceress. _‘You cannot hide’,_ for I know all your unscrupulous moves. _‘I am everywhere’,_ even in your most sacred space. _’Do not underestimate me’,_ do so at your own peril. _‘We will twist no further, for we have broken away from the constraints of your so imposed society’_.” Celene grinned and her blue eyes seemed almost to sparkle in the moonlight. “This is the fight of my life.”

“And you are… content?”

“Oh, my dear Morrigan,” the grin grew larger, almost maniac in nature, and Kallian would have, in some way, resembled her very much, “I am positively _breathless_ to see the twists and turns of this bloodied dance of ours.”


End file.
